


I'll pick up the tab.

by Voxal



Category: Dir en grey
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2015-11-22
Packaged: 2018-05-02 18:50:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5259758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Voxal/pseuds/Voxal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>And even as I lay down my piece of plastic first, his middle finger presses down on the card and he pulls it to his side. He takes it from the table and slips it into his wallet and pulls out his own. </i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <i>I guess I’ll pick up the tab next time. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll pick up the tab.

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: [ Here](http://img705.imageshack.us/img705/6804/caferestur.png)

We’ve been here before, years ago. When we weren’t who we are now, when we were no one. When we weren’t us. 

We came here as friends, talked about the future. Talked about making it big, doing everything we do now. We would order the same meals, same drinks, talk about the same things. The tables are different though, I recognize them. Imperial red granite. He has the same on his counter tops in the kitchen. Even the lighting is a little dimmer. Someone came by to take our orders and we sat quietly for a moment, watching other people eat and chat to themselves. 

It’s been so long, but it feels the same, sitting here with him. He’s more grown up now; you can see it in his face, the way he acts, the way he speaks. The way he handles things, the way he handles me. I’ve grown up too, but I don’t think I’ve matured as nicely as he has. Everything about him says control. His expressions, his appearance, his speech, his performance. 

I rub circles on the table top, making patterns with the natural oils on my fingertips. I don’t remember what he’s talking about but I laugh because he does. Don’t misinterpret this, I’m not laughing at him or just to get him to stop talking. His face is unexplainable sometimes, when he laughs, his voice is so deep, rumbles in his chest. He always looks down, like he’s shy. His eyes get really small but I can tell they’re not closed. I can tell that he’s nervous, even after all these years. After all these years with him, I still make him nervous. He’ll fidget. He’ll touch anything he can get his hands on, he twists his glass of water that was brought out, he’ll push the ash tray against the wall. He flicks the cap open and shut a few times and finally our food is here. 

I ordered a sandwich. The same one I always ordered when we came here. It tastes the same as it did years ago, I missed the taste. He orders one of the things he always ordered, meat and potatoes served over rice. You’d think now that we have money to spare, we’d get something that would fill us up, something with more variety. But we want our memories here to be unchanged; we don’t want to change what was ours, what is ours. This was where we talked, where we ate. This was where we were ourselves. 

We eat somewhat quietly, talking when either of us feels the need to say something. I mostly speak just to get a reaction, just to hear that rumble from his voice. Just to hear that nervous chuckle that comes a second after he’s done talking. And as we finish our food and our drinks, piling the plates on top of each other so we have more room to move our arms, I reach over and grab for the lighter just as he wraps his fingers around it. He does this purposely sometimes, just to get me to touch his hand. But he doesn’t even need to ask that. 

“Get your own.” He doesn’t mean it. What he really means is, take it from my hand. Stick your fingers into my palm, and try to pry it loose, touch me. I silently do just as he asks, I pry his fingers open, even when he tries to pull back, I throw on my best look of irritation and I grab his wrist with my other hand, making quick work of his hand, plucking the silver lighter from it. I scowl at him as I light up a cigarette. I’m not mad or irritated at all. He can tell that inside, I wish he would have held onto it tighter, yanked his arm away and ran off so I could chase. I love it when he asks for me to touch him by telling me to get my own or not saying anything at all. I can see it in his eyes, I can see how much he’s smiling on the inside over that and I look away before my face mirrors his, the one on the inside. 

We sit in silence as I smoke. Both elbows on the table with our dishes now taken away. He asks for the check and as soon as she walks away we have a moment where we stare at each other, both of us struggling to get our wallets out. I almost burn my hand, my fingers were above the filter and I didn’t realize I had smoked so much of the stick, but I have my wallet out and open first. I stub the stick out before I set myself up in flames. 

I remember, the last time we came here, we argued about who would pay, and who had more money to pay for it. We emptied our pockets, most of the time I had more money. I didn’t mind paying, honestly. I liked arguing with him over it, I purposely brought enough money just for the chance to argue. And even as I lay down my piece of plastic first, his middle finger presses down on the card and he pulls it to his side. He takes it from the table and slips it into his wallet and pulls out his own. 

I guess I’ll pick up the tab next time.


End file.
